


Those Quiet Times

by the-eagle-of-masyaf (Dunkelherz)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Canon, Anticipation, Canon Related, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Intimacy, Love, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Reunion, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunkelherz/pseuds/the-eagle-of-masyaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik thought that it didn't need words to understand what both men shared. It was a bound going deeper than brotherhood, deeper than friendship. Were they lovers? Probably – but Malik knew that none of them would ever admit to that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Quiet Times

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few years ago. Decided to publish it now. And yes, I'm still alive and writing...
> 
> And if you'd feel like it, I'd be so happy to read your comments :)

Malik had known for two days now that today would be the day of Altair's return. He'd looked up from his work more than just one time, restless, his eyes always searching the horizon when staring out of his window. He was nervous. He, Malik, second-in-command, was _nervous_. But who could blame him... he hadn't seen Altair for so long and he couldn't deny the butterflies gathering inside his stomach whenever he thought about the stoic assassin. Butterflies - it almost made him scoff.

 

But in the past years in which they had lead the Brotherhood, too much had happened. One too much of a touch here, another pat on the back there and one thing had lead to the other. When they've had sat together over the Apple both absorbed in a discussion about how they could protect the artifact, musing over the question if Altair should dare to use the power it possessed, it finally happened. Words were shouted, fists were flying and then lips met lips, a hasty, aggressive kiss which soon had turned into more.

 

It's always been like that between them, right? It was rare for touches to be gentle, rare that they spoke of what'd happened hidden in the dark shadows of Altair's chamber. But Malik thought that it didn't need words to understand what both men shared. It was a bound going deeper than brotherhood, deeper than friendship. Were they lovers? Probably – but Malik knew that none of them would ever admit to that.

 

Just as much Malik would never admit _how_ nervous he was, telling himself that it was probably something he ate earlier that caused his stomach feeling like flipping over again and again. He thought he was acting like a wife, waiting for the husband's return. It angered him sometimes that he fought with feathers and ink instead of feeling the familiar weight of his sword, striking and killing. It wasn't like as if he was not in shape anymore. _He was_. Every now and then he couldn't fight the urge and went into the training circle in the middle of Masyaf's court, teaching novices a lesson which they wouldn't forget: do not _ever_ underestimate an one-armed man, especially not when he's called King of Swords.

 

It was ridiculous, really, and it angered Malik far too often; every time when he realized what power Altair possessed over him. He would never show it towards the other man, but he missed him when he was gone for days, weeks and months even, visiting Acre or Damascus, sometimes Jerusalem too. It wasn't like as if they were always fighting, Malik relished their deep meaningful conversations. Sitting by the flames near the fireplace, maybe a good tea with honey in their hands, some dried fruit... When Altair was sitting across from him, his hands in the air as he was gesticulating wildly while speaking. The manner how his eyes were shining when he spoke with passion, how the corners of his mouth twitched right before he smiled. Malik missed his scent and the sound of his voice – a few years ago he'd rather cut off his own ears than to hear Altair speak. But now... now Malik couldn't stay angry with him anymore. Yes, that was Altair's true power – even when not there, the shadow of his presence followed Malik everywhere. Just as fast as his rage had burst into a firestorm, just as fast it had shrunk to a small, hardly glowing spark. Even when Altair wasn't there did he long for his presence and sometimes, well, often, Malik cursed the moments when the Grandmaster was actually with him, irritating him to no end. After all... it was ridiculous. It was nothing more than like a dance on a blade's edge and whatever move Altair made, Malik would fall and lose himself in the vortex of his own emotions.

 

It was like playing with fire and Malik felt drawn to Altair just like a moth to a candle's flame.

 

Distance shouts mixed with the sound of hooves trotting over loose gravel caught Malik's attention. He turned around, his focus set on the road outside his window. He saw a cloud of dust whirling above the ground, men walking next to a horse and yes... there was no doubt anymore, Altair had returned.

 

 

With quick steps he crossed his small private chamber. Malik had never been a man who needed luxury to be grateful. A bed, a desk, a wardrobe and a shelf full of books was all he needed. But that wasn't probably true – maybe Malik liked to lie to himself. Because the largest luxury he owned was to be with the man Al Mualim had killed all those years ago, the man who had returned from the dead and lead the Order to new glory. Altair, who was called a demon by many, who appeared to be nothing but a wild beast and turned tame in Malik's arms – and when he flashed Malik one of his rare smiles, the sun was shining even if it was in the middle of the night. _That_ was pure luxury, a luxury that could not be bought with money.

 

He stopped when his hand grabbed the handle of the door and he shook his head. No, no he wouldn't storm down the stairs like a youth to wait for Altair's arrival. Just as always Malik knew that Altair would come to him and he would wait. He'd come when the time was right to share what no one knew about. The idea of what could happen if somebody should ever discover what he and the Grandmaster had was enough to twist his guts. If they wouldn't be stoned to death, their enemies soon would learn about Altair's one true weak point and they would strike and kill. The Grandmaster's one true weak point... without a doubt it was Malik.

 

Malik often thought that it were those feelings Altair hold dear for him which caused the Grandmaster to swamp him with paper work so he couldn't ride out to go on missions. On most days Malik tried to believe that, because in all honesty, he often felt like a caged animal, invisible chains holding him captured within Masyaf's walls.

 

With slowly steps he returned to his desk, taking one feather to dip into ink and started writing again. His hand was shaking and it took all his willpower to not open the door, to not go downstairs into the grand hall to see Altair. He could hear the excited shouts and how they came closer and closer – when Altair returned from a mission, his arrival always caused great fuss. Everybody wanted to see him and those who were new to the order hoped to get a small glimpse of the living legend.

 

Then, finally, he heard Altair's voice booming from the court's walls through his opened window. He trembled and the feather fell from his hand, a big stain of ink ruining his work from the last hour. Malik's heart skipped a beat and for a moment he thought it would jump right out of his chest as it was beating so wildly. He wondered why he still felt like that after all these years. Maybe he was just asking the wrong questions and his heart was holding the answers without Malik knowing it – which didn't mean that he could still ignore them.

 

Malik took a new sheet of paper, starting to write again and eventually the sun went down and the night came up. He lit a candle which trembling flame created big shadows upon his walls and Malik took off the first layer of his robes, not thinking Altair would come tonight. Without the dark blue he just looked like any other assassin. The red sash hung loosely around his hips, the white robes and high boots making it clear that he was in fact a member of the order, not just some cripple.

 

He had just started to sort his papers when the door opened. Of course Altair wouldn't knock.

 

Malik looked up and he saw the shadow standing there, his hands crossed in front of his chest as he leaned against the heavy door. Altair looked tired. A thick layer of dust covering his clothes – after all, it was summer and it hadn't rained in days, the desert was dry. He seemed smaller than usual and Malik thought that maybe it was the weight of his duties pressing down on his shoulders which made him look like that. Altair's face was hidden underneath the shadow of his hood and Malik hated him wearing it when they met. Altair shouldn't hide when being with him.

 

 

The Dai leaned back in his chair and simply looked at Altair. Altair pushed himself softly off the door and crossed the distance between them. He stopped when he stood in front of Malik, heavily breathing and Malik's fingers trembled. The urge to reach for Altair and to pull off his hood was strong. To his surprise, Altair knelt down in front of him and shifted closer, resting his head on Malik's lap as he wrapped his arms around the man's waist.

 

It was a strange position, so submissive and yet so intimate. Slowly, ever so slowly Malik rose his hand and his fingers curled into Altair's hood, pulling it back down to his shoulders. His digits run gently through his dust covered hair. Altair sighed, his eyes closed now and he almost seemed relaxed.

 

“How was Acre?”, Malik pondered after what seemed like eternity while his fingers never stopped moving.

 

Altair showed no movement and for a moment Malik believed he'd fallen asleep to his feet.

 

“Lonely”, Altair said eventually and dear god, Malik had missed his voice.

 

“Lonely? Really? And why is that?” Malik's eyebrows almost vanished in the line of his hair as he pulled them up further with every of his questions. Sometimes, Altair spoke in riddles but that seemed to lay within his nature. Malik had learned many years ago, when they had still been novices, that Altair was a man who liked to hide his true feelings.

 

“Idiot... you weren't there.” This was the closest of a confession Malik would ever get from Altair, the closest of an 'I missed you' – he wasn't mad though but it was tiring at times.

 

“No, I stayed behind like I always do when you leave”, Malik said, his voice as gentle as a whisper in a mild summer night. “One has to look over the Grandmaster's duties during his absence, no?” He pushed some of Altair's hair back and watched it moving through his fingers. It had gotten long during his journey and Malik would cut it later. He run his fingers down the line of Altair's jaw, across rough and stubbly skin. He needed to shave, too.

 

There was a roll of muscles in Altair's shoulders as they went tense, his chest stopped moving when he held his breath for a moment. Malik knew what he was thinking about and he let his hand fall to Altair's neck, fingers curling around it without adding pressure yet. He could kill him like that, all it really needed was one quick motion, snapping the bones which held his head. Altair trusted him with his life and Malik would keep it just as safe as his own. His hand relaxed, his fingers curling loosely above Altair's skin. “I have my duties here, Altair”, he said. “There's enough work to keep me occupied for the rest of my life.” He didn't need to ride out and go on missions, that's what he tried to tell him without using the words. He was still an assassin even with only one arm. Only both men knew the truth and they knew who was to blame for that.

 

Malik had forgiven him but at times, Altair forgot. Malik needed to remind him. He brushed his fingers down Altair's shoulder, to his collar and followed the hem of his robes there. “Take your clothes off”, he said. “You smell worse than an horde of barbarians.”

 

Altair rose his head meeting Malik's gaze, those bright eyes which had looked at him with pure arrogance in the past and at times with so much anger. There had been moments in which Malik had enjoyed pushing Altair, made him angry on purpose so he would glare with pure hate at him. Back then Malik had thought it was the look that suited Altair the most. Back then he hadn't known how beautiful Altair was when he looked at him like he did now.

 

“Not like as if I could have done anything about it”, he said in a low murmur and he slowly stood, the sound of bones popping back into their places reaching Malik's ears as he stretched his knees, pushing himself to full hight. His hands came up, fingers curling around the hand of his robes before pulling them down his shoulders. They landed in a heap to his feet while Malik crossed one leg over the other, resting his chin on two fingers and his thumb, watching Altair. Next came the armor, belt, his red sash. His white assassin robes were no longer white, dirt and sweat, even blood covering them in most places. He'd hear Altair's report later. Once when they were done and maybe, it could wait till the morning as for tonight, he wanted _him_ and not the Grandmaster.

 

Malik watched Altair. The flames of the fire dipped his skin into the glow of a soft orange hue. His nails were dirty, neck and throat too and Malik could almost see the line of his clothes. “Turn around”, he murmured and made a rotating motion with his hand.

 

They were dancing around each other and Malik knew it, always going back and forth until they'd finally meet. It was a thin border they were walking upon, the fine line of being Grandmaster and Dai, brothers and friends, lovers. At times they were clashing like titans, a shove of hands and an exchange of angry words, rising voices and a heap of limbs and clothes, clawing at each other as they were fighting for the upper hand and in the end, they'd both lose and they wouldn't mind. On other days, it was like this. The both of them tired, seeking the comfort of each other, creating a sanctuary in a mad world hidden behind closed walls and doors for nobody's eyes to see. A secret only he and Altair shared, something so precious and fragile they were afraid to destroy it if one of them would move too fast.

 

“It's not your blood on your clothes then”, Malik stated eventually, pleased to see there were no new wounds, only old scars. Altair didn't wear many of them and only half of them were from actual battles. There were angry red scars running down his back in thick strong lines, the remains of corporal punishment back from the days they'd still been children. His fingers and arms where what looked the worst, a thousand cuts and one too many broken bones from where he'd fallen and picked himself up again. There was only one old scar Malik could recall that had almost been fatal for Altair, it was a rather small one, a innocent one going from his hipbone up to the middle of his stomach. It hadn't been deep but it had gotten infected, Altair too stubborn to tell Malik – every wound and every scar meant he'd failed, not able to protect himself. A wound meant not being the best in battle. Ever since then Malik looked, watched over Altair's body, took care of it. Today he was pleased.

 

Altair snorted, “No it's not.”

 

No, it never was, wasn't it?

 

“Have a seat”, Malik said as he rose himself, walking over to the dresser sitting next to the fireplace. He picked up a sachet filled with herbs, just big enough to rest comfortable in his palm. He put it into the water basin next to it, the water cold but fresh and carried it over to Altair who was sitting in his chair now. Malik sat it onto his desk and fixed his papers there before they would accidentally get wet. He watched Altair out of the corner of his eyes as he arranged his writings in the shelf. He didn't move, eyes half closed and staring into empty space, the water basin sitting untouched in front of him. The smell of herbs filled the room slowly, lavender and jasmin. The fire was cracking as he closed the distance between himself and Altair, picking up the sachet wringing it out with thick streams of water running down his hand. He created a pattern of wet spots on the polished surface of his desk, on the floor, the chair Altair was sitting on, his chest. Malik lifted one leg and sat onto Altair's lap.

 

He pressed the sachet against Altair's chest, the excessive water spilling from underneath and running down his stomach. It earned Malik a sharp inhale of air, the water was cold after all and goosebumps spread across his skin. It made Altair tremble and for Malik that was victorious; like redirecting their past, moving Altair was a trying task.

 

His Grandmaster sighed, eyes at half mast watching Malik. “How was Acre?”, Malik asked again and his voice held the same volume as the cracking fire in the distance. With each word he'd moved closer, his back arching and his face was only inches away from Altair's. They were breathing the same air and Altair closed his eyes.

 

“Dirty”, he said this time and Malik run the sachet down his chest. “It smelled of fish... ”, Altair hummed. “And there are rats everywhere”, he added as Malik brought the pouch of herbs back up to his shoulder to let it linger there. Malik thought his choice of words was interesting. He'd never said 'Acre was successful' or 'The mission went as planned', no. Altair chose to tell him about the city, about his stay there and for a moment, it made Malik think that the matters of the Order were not as important as he and Altair and what they shared right now; that for a moment, the both of them could forget about their roles and become the men they were. Simple as that.

 

“You hate rats”, Malik noticed amused and he looked down as he'd reached Altair's hand resting on his thigh comfortable. The sachet was forgotten for a moment as he let go of it and it slipped down Altair's thigh and in between his legs. He was more interested in Altair's hand, Malik's fingers played with the gap in between Altair's, tips moving along the stump there.

 

“I hate Acre”, Altair said in a heavy voice and he opened his eyes again.

 

“You didn't hate it when we were younger”, Malik teased but his focus was set on Altair's hand and he picked it up, turning it over to run his thumb along the lines inside his palm. “I remember you liked climbing the towers.” He looked up and was surprised to see the look in his eyes. It was a mixture of hurt and depression, a look that seemed somewhat empty to Malik. He'd liked climbing those towers too and Altair knew. There were more than just one moment in which Malik hated it when Altair became like this, eaten by his own guilt; the man in front of him turning himself into a monster, ripping himself apart until nothing was left. Despite everything that had happened, it was a fate Altair didn't deserve.

 

He wanted to tell Altair to not ruin this moment, to not turn angry and push Malik off his lap. He didn't want to fight to share an exchange of intimacy.

 

Malik picked up the sachet and dipped it once more into the water basin behind him. He didn't wring it out this time, a hundred little waterfalls following the movement of his hand as he brought it up to Altair's face, placing it against his cheeks to run it down and along the line of his jaw. It made Altair look again, his eyes growing softer and yet they were distant, his gaze set onto playing images Malik couldn't see. It was time to remind Altair.

 

It was nothing more but a brush of lips against lips and Malik smelled lavender and jasmin above the leftovers of dirt and sweat. He waited for Altair, to push against him to throw him off, to thrash and roar. Nothing of it happened and maybe they really have grown older, more mature. At times Malik knew he had. Altair met Malik's eyes, his focus completely sat on Malik. He was there, he was here with him in the presence – it had done the trick, the clouds of their past now longer darkening Altair's mind.

 

The sachet fell out of Malik' hand as he found himself pulled against Altair, one arm curled around his waist to keep him close. Malik had been wrong, Altair did thrash and he did roar but in a far different way then he would have thought at first. Altair was kissing him and he was kissing Malik as if his dear life was depending on it. He practically tried to crawl into Malik's body, pushed closer closer _closer_. It could never be enough, couldn't it? They would never get enough of this, not today and not tomorrow. They would wait and long for each other until none of them could stand it any longer, until they could succumb to their need. Malik wanted this, Altair _wanted_ and it could be so easy and simple, but it wasn't. The moments in which they could truly submit to their want, the moments in which they could be honest about what they shared were rare and beautiful. Right now Altair was like an angry sea, his waves clashing against Malik, overrunning him and pulling him deep into the abyss.

 

“I've missed you”, Altair breathed against Malik's lips and it turned his whole world upside down, made him lose his balance. He felt like falling, as if the floor had opened up underneath him.

 

Maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe that swarm of butterflies was enough to bring him back to the surface again. Altair would always be there.


End file.
